Shaken to the Foundation
by Izic
Summary: A new recruit into the foundation arrives shortly before all hell literally breaks loose.


11:36 AM, Baltimore Harbor…

Vincent Moss felt the pulsing waves beneath him, the boat rocking furiously against the large waves that emanated from the large structure in front of him. The 'captain' of the boat, some jerk blankface, was grunting every time a fairly large wave hit the port side. Vince thought the guy look like some generic suit, some exec that was shaped from a mold. He had hardest features, and slicked back hair, but then the wind hit him as they went back onto the water, from the docks, and now his head from the back was a moving mound of jet-black hair. Vince grinned, his mind turning up juvenile insults against the captain, but he never voiced them. The facility, growing closer, was a mass of building on an oilrig platform. It looked like an industrial Atlantis, a floating, dully gleaming group of buildings, big and small. Black specks moved around, presumably people, and slightly bigger, more distinguishable masses, vehicles or deck equipment, took up room on the dock area. The boat made a particularly big leap, tossing Vince a few inches in the air, and he came down hard on his ass.

"Oi, Cap'n! Mind dodging the waves more than a meter high?" Vincent shouted, try to get his voice on top of the wind. On the whole, there was really bad weather coming up. The sky was a mottled gray, not raining but close, and the wind was incredibly strong. It would flip the boat if the waves weren't counter-tossing it around. The installation, the floating testament to industrial ubiquity, had grown much closer during Vince's contemplation of his surrounding. There were more specks, now identifiable as people, but Vince couldn't make out any features. The Cap'n pulled some rough turns, the boat zigging and zagging, sloshing up small waves to go fight the big ones around the docks, and then they slowed, drifting toward a low, metal platform around the larger, concrete docks. There was definite activity above, and as Vince looked up, he saw something definitively odd. A man, or woman, it was impossible to tell, looked over the side of the dock, not leaning on the rail, just a sideways, downward glance. The reason it was impossible to tell was because he/she/it was clad in Combat Boots, Camouflage Pants, Body armor and gloves, and a gas mask. Vincent didn't even register all of it at first. There was nothing, absolutely nothing, which could have spooked him more. This place was part of the Foundation, a paramilitary outfit Vincent heard about through word of mouth, in some very high-up places. The big shots mentioned it with a foul note, as if this place was something to be hidden, buried and never spoken of. Which it _was_, apparently quite often. So, Vince outfitted his talents, most of which ended or were practiced to incite someone's life ending, and The Foundation, or an official from which, came to induct him. And now, he was being ferried by some generic company jerk (clone #124, he mused), to some industrial Atlantis out in the middle of the harbor, which was home to soldiers in gasmasks. Vincent was able to identify the feelings he felt; confusion, some fear, a lot of reluctance, and just a little bit of _what the fuck_? The boat was rocking to and fro, and fro was taking the boat too far to the left, making it impossible to take a simple step off the boat.

"You figure you can jump, Greener?"

Vincent both shrugged and winced, not know how to respond. He made the shaky connection of Greener to Greenhorn, and then shuddered at the prospect of jumping. The good Cap'n hadn't stopped to close to the dock to begin with, and now there was an easy five-foot gap separating Vincent from the proverbial 'sweet and steady land'. He shrugged, swallowed, and then braced against the boat's side and threw himself across the gap. His first foot landed, while his latter foot, the one he pushed off with, followed up to strike the back of his leg. He stumbled, rolling toward the right of the ladder. He stumbled forward, a gawky run, and threw his hand out as he carried himself behind the ladder and over open water. His hand closed around the side of the metal ladder, and he swung himself, as awkwardly as he had 'ran', onto the back of the ladder. His legs hadn't found the lower rungs yet, so his arms were the only things supporting him. He felt fire in his muscles and a severe tension in his arms. The boat driver wasn't looking; he had turned his attention to some gauges, and his little trip hadn't made enough noise to deter him from that. He edged his legs up and onto the rungs, keeping himself up now with all of his limbs, and he let his arms relax, hanging back now. Seriously, a helluva way to be. Vincent shimmied and swung until he was back on the right side of the ladder. Nothing seemed to be going right, in the very least. He leaned against the ladder, the rungs hurting his back, and as he looked around, for no other reason but to kill time, he heard someone calling him.

"Hey! Buddy!"

Vincent looked up, seeing one of the Gasmask Goons leaning over the railing, calling to him.

"What's takin' so long, aye?"

Vincent was about to call back, then stopped. No real point. He turned and climbed up, hesitating slightly when he remembered that the receiving party _was _wearing a gasmask.

He heaved himself up, and felt something like a penny being pressed to his head. There was a tall man (had to be male, what with all the muscles) stood in front of him, the same Gas mask monkey suit.

"Name?"

"Uh…Vincent Moose…Moss! I mean Moss!

Vincent looked around, not turning in the direction of the penny because he had a sickening feeling that he knew that it really was. The compound was sprawling, with more Goons walking around, all holding metal Machine Guns and much bigger, badder looking machine guns, these ones with box feeds. M60 was the first thing that occurred to him, the big, bountiful machine guns imposing and not a little frightening. The other guns were sleeker, and more silvery. Greasers, thought Vincent, M3A1's, high firepower and more than a little speedy on the pull. The set-up was not unlike the arms dealer's compound in Russia, Vincent's last employer. The big man in front of him nodded, and the penny was lowered. The other soldier, the 'it' that looked over at him, lowered the gun from Vince's head to its side, and was still.

"Right on time, mister Moss. Building right there."

The man jammed a thumb over his shoulder, toward a building right down the dock. Vince nodded, ignoring the weaponry everyone held, and walked toward the concrete building. Everyone gave him cursory glances, the obligatory new guy stare. Vincent assumed everyone was used to people like him coming in. Vincent took everything in, the entire complex. In front of him, 3 indistinguishable buildings save for a sign on each saying PREP 1, 2, and 3, respectively, sat squat and curiously clean in the cloudy light. To their right, in the center of the complex, was a large building, and on top of the first floor was a smaller story, with a concrete walkway circling it. On top of that was a still smaller story, with a platform, probably a small service helipad. There were mounted machine guns, 50. Cal's by the look of them, one the two corners of the pad facing him, and he could only assume that there were two on the other side. There was a large, central tower in the middle of the docks, not the private, small use one he just walked off of but the big, service kind, meant for big ships. Behind those was a large warehouse. But in between the big warehouse and the big three-story building, there was another, small one. The medium between the relatively small warehouse, and the three story building, this building was two story's, with a satellite dish on the roof and a sanitized, hospital look to it. People were funneling in and out of there in a beehive like way, scurried here and to there. Vincent nodded to himself, for no reason other than to mark the end of his little self-tour, and entered the building.

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End file.
